Unsung guardian of the night

A couple of years ago, our neighbourhood hired a night watchman — a modest, quiet man, hardly noticeable during the day, but someone who became our invisible shield after dusk. While we turned in for the night, locking our doors and windows, he walked the lanes with silent purpose — alert, observant and deeply committed to the safety of people who hardly noticed him.

Our welfare association president handed him a small notebook to keep a record of the monthly payment made by residents. He was asked to charge Rs 400 per household — a reasonable sum for the peace of mind he offered. Most paid up. But then there were others — evasive, indifferent or simply arrogant.

Some residents dismissed him on one pretext or the other: “Kal aana” or “Next month le lena payment.” He never protested. With folded hands, he would reply softly, “Theek hai, saab ji.” His tone carried quiet dignity — no resentment, no complaint.

Ironically, those who failed to pay were the ones who frequently criticised his work. “Na seeti marda, na danda kharkaonda!” (he neither blows his whistle nor bangs his stick!) — as if his worth depended on how much noise he made at night.

Worse still were the self-proclaimed idealists — residents from well-to-do households who often lectured on morality and civic duty in our residents WhatsApp group. One of them scoffed, “He’s not a government servant. Fire him. Get someone else.”

The association president, measured and polite, replied, “If you feel so strongly, please recommend a better replacement.” The gentleman, high on rhetoric, agreed. But a month later, when reminded, he sheepishly said, “No one better came forward. Let him stay.” That quiet surrender said it all.

This man — whom they were so quick to cast aside — had never missed a single shift. While the neighbourhood lay in slumber, he moved through its silent lanes — braving the freezing cold, lashing rain and energy-sapping heat. He did not seek recognition or pity. All he longed for was the grace of simple decency.

He would often pause at each gate, glance around, and gently tap his stick — a sound we heard, but rarely acknowledged. In truth, the hardest part of his job wasn’t guarding our homes. It was enduring our indifference.

Too often, those who shout the loudest contribute the least. So, the next time we pass someone who serves in silence — whether it’s a guard, a cleaner, a car washer or a delivery boy — let us not forget: Humanity lies not in what we say, but in how we treat those who keep us safe without ever expecting or demanding thanks.

Musings